


and the rest is rust and stardust

by Ruby_Casablanca



Category: The Old Guard (Comics), The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Baklava, Domestic Fluff, Embracing Mortality, Found Family Feels, Gen, Malta, Scars, andy-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-22
Updated: 2020-07-22
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:28:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25453147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ruby_Casablanca/pseuds/Ruby_Casablanca
Summary: There were years, centuries, millennia, when mirrors did not exist, at least not to those too poor and too battle scarred to afford them. The first time she gazed upon her reflection after going so long without it, she did not recognize herself. All the times after, she recognized herself too well.Years, centuries, millennia. The picture never changes.Now, Andy notices differences.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 22
Kudos: 188





	and the rest is rust and stardust

**Author's Note:**

> I watched The Old Guard on Netflix no less than 3 times in 48 hours, and needless to say I am obsessed. Like an unhealthy amount. I have never read the comics, so I hope that there is something here that everyone can enjoy :)

and the rest is rust and stardust

Andy does not consider herself vain.

There were years, centuries, millennia, when mirrors did not exist, at least not to those too poor and too battle scarred to afford them. The first time she gazed upon her reflection after going so long without it, she did not recognize herself. All the times after, she recognized herself too well.

Years, centuries, millennia. The picture never changes.

Now, Andy notices differences.

A silver hair, the very first, grows near the root her right temple. The lines around her eyes cut a little bit deeper. The aching in her knuckles throbs without her having to throw a punch.

She wonders, as she touches the stranger in the mirror, if she will ever recognize herself again.

Hairs can be plucked. Lines can be smoothed. Joints can be wrapped.

What cannot be fixed are the scars.

Andy is used to wearing her scars on the inside. Years of loneliness, betrayal, and death have carved her heart away, leaving behind a gnarled, mangled thing with walls so tall and thick they put Troy to shame.

Now, she has scars on the outside.

The one on her shoulder is nearly seamless with the rest of her skin, a raised line of silver-white. Thin. Neat. Andy can appreciate the precision.

Lower, on the left side of her abdomen, the second scar has yet to heal fully. She keeps it covered, if only because she can't stand its rawness, how the edges feel like they could rip at the slightest of pressure. Such a small wound, a tiny ring of puckered red flesh, and yet it aches with the fury of all the wounds that came before. Millennia of pain, written permanently in her flesh.

There will be other wounds. Andy isn’t optimistic enough to think if she continues down this path with her newfound mortality, she won’t endure a few more scars. Bigger scars. Deeper scars.

Soon enough, her body will look just like her heart.

She doesn’t hate them. At least, she doesn’t think she does.

Mortality makes her sentimental.

Sometimes, she thinks she should write a book. The real history of the world. A culmination of all the lives she has lived. But the dry history, the battles fought and empires felled, those are not the important things. Those are not the things that bring a light to Nile’s eyes. And those are not the things Andy wants to remember in the few years she has left.

Andy tells Nile stories instead. Memories. Fragments of feelings and experiences half-remembered.

How the papyrus scrolls at the Library of Alexandria felt under her fingertips. How the sunset over a certain Saturnalia in Pompeii made the whole Mediterranean look like a sea on fire. How the desert along the Silk Road could stretch forever, it’s length second only to the forever stretch of the Great Wall. How, after three tankards of mulled wine, she had to pry Shakespeare off of Nicky before Joe robbed the world of a theatrical genius. How Rodin was not the first man to immortalize her in art, but the first to ask permission.

Those are the things Andy wants to remember.

Those are the kinds of memories Andy wants to make with the time she has left.

Downstairs, there is laughter. Joe’s laughter, most likely at something Nicky did or said. Nile’s footsteps creak across the old wood floors, close by. They’re all the in kitchen then. A normal place to be this time of morning. They’re probably making breakfast, waiting for her.

Andy pulls her shirt over her head and leaves her reflection behind.

The stairs squeak and groan under the weight of her boots. She doesn’t try to be stealthy. There’s no point.

Not when Nicky is fussing over a skillet on the ancient stove. Not when Joe is standing close behind him with arms wrapped around Nicky’s waist, stealing bits from the pan. Not when Nile is fussing with the radio, changing the station to find something she can bop her head to. Not when her family is safe at the Bravo house in Malta, with nothing to kill except time.

“Hey boss,” Joe says, warm and easy, looking at her like nothing’s changed.

Andy stops, hip cocked against the entryway, watching. Nile finds a song that satisfies her, the gentle melody filling the open room. She tips her head back against her chair, letting the sunlight streaming through the open window warm her face. Joe disentangles himself from Nicky and takes a seat, then looks at Andy, waiting.

It’s an invitation to join them at the table, four places set. Part of Andy hurts that there should be five of them seated around this table meant for two, but she hasn’t given up on Booker just yet.

Nicky sets large plates of food down: fresh sliced fruits and meats, poached eggs and slightly-burnt french toast, and chocolate chip pancakes Andy has a suspicion are just for Nile. Nicky has something just for Andy, too: a small, warm parcel wrapped in burlap still hot and sticky from when he must have bought it fresh at the market.

Andy knows what it is before the familiar scent of nut and honey reaches her nose. She grins.

Nicky takes his seat beside Joe, nudging Nile’s shoulder along the way, a matching grin on his face. “Watch this, it’s incredible.”

The baklava is sweet on her tongue.

It tastes like home.


End file.
